


Luminous Beings Are We

by Castillon02



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Banter, Cosplay, Dirty Talk, Humor, Identity Porn, M/M, Nerdiness, Sarcasm, Star Wars References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 02:02:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5112239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castillon02/pseuds/Castillon02
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an effort to persuade Q to accept him and his feelings, Bond learns the way of the nerd and creates a special Halloween cosplay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Anything is possible."

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beaubete](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/gifts).



> Thank you to both of my fantastic beta readers for the cheerleading and the editing. This story would have more Newtons and less clarity without Linorien's help, and fewer commas and more lingering questions without the work of ghostoftwentysomethingspresent. Thank you also to my invaluable sounding board, Sofia Gigante, without whom this could not have been written the way it has been. 
> 
> A big thank you is also due to The Dented Helmet, particularly the poor soul who had Bond's helmet problem and the people who responded, and the 501st Legion website. In real life, I know nothing about cosplay except that the people who do it are amazingly dedicated. 
> 
> This fic was written for the 00Q NYP Halloween Exchange, for the lovely beaubete. 
> 
> Her prompt:  
> Bond is the one pining for Q for once.  
> \+ Q knows that Bond is pining  
> \+ Q teases Bond for being kind of easy to sleep with/a sure thing  
> \+ Bond doesn't press the issue  
> \+ They end up drunk at Nando's wearing costumes

Bond trailed his fingers around the Walther that had been left lying across Q’s desk, like Q had known that Bond would be coming in this morning to look for it. He was careful not to make contact. Q’s door lock had let him in despite the damage to his palms, but perhaps it ran on different software. 

Q arrived only three minutes later, pink in the face and not-quite-panting, but his darting eyes ascertained the situation within moments and the tense pinch of his lips relaxed. "The gun's not meant to bite," he said. “Or at least, it shouldn’t bite _you_.” He shrugged out of his anorak and hung it on a wall hook before crossing over to Bond.  

"That's why I'm here," Bond said, turning to him. "I'm afraid that it might." He held up his hands for Q's inspection, his palms out like a surrender.  

"Hmm. You do seem to have injured yourself." Q leaned closer and peered through his glasses, his hand coming up to hover over Bond's left wrist. 

Bond nodded at Q's inquiring glance. His breathing automatically fell into a deep, even pattern as Q's fingers wrapped around his wrist, one of Q's hands bringing him closer to Q's face, the other coming up so Q could skim over the red tips of his fingers, trace the warm pink lashes across the lengths of them, and follow them down to the scattered blotches on his palms. Q's breath tickled his skin; his grip on Bond's wrist felt warm and secure. Part of Bond's mind embraced the moment, cataloguing it with all of his senses and encircling it with memory. The other kept watch, all too aware that it would be ending just...about...now.  

Q let go of his hand and stepped back, heading for his desktop. "Hot wax?" he asked, typing in his password without sitting down.

"Glue gun," Bond corrected him, and had the pleasure of seeing Q do a double-take.

"Hands on the scanner, please," Q said after that brief pause, directing him to press his hands on the glass surface of a slim device to the left of his computer. "And stand back, stay still... This will take a minute."

Bond stood back and stayed still, and a green laser light moved back and forth across the scanner, apparently absorbing Bond's new palm prints into Q's system.        

"You're working on your Halloween costume," Q said into the silence.

Said costume work had ended in defeat by the very weapon he’d been wielding, so Bond smirked and said, "Didn't you know? All I have to do is show up to the MI6 Masquerade shirtless. People will think I'm God and start to beg."

Q snorted. "You mean they'll start begging for your help in winning the lotto? I think you'd rather I were God under circumstances like those. You can remove your hands now."

Bond said, "I think I'd rather you were God in most circumstances. I pray to you often enough…." He took his hands off the scanner, pressed his palms together, and affected a solemn expression. "Dear Q, please say that you'll join me for dinner tonight, and for dinner every night thereafter. Amen."

But his prayers wouldn’t be answered. Q’s shoulders had gone stiff, and his eyes were very focused on his monitor. "You're welcome to eat dinner with me any night you like, just as you've done in the past," he said. He was referring to some of their many late nights in the Branch, take-away and mission reports, or just take-away and missions when Bond was thousands of miles away but their mealtimes collided. He wasn't getting Bond's message—or he was, but he refused to read it.  

"Q, you know that I—"  

"I know that you're the love them and leave them type," Q interrupted, straightening to look at him. "And as you know," Q's eyes flicked to Bond's watch, in which he had embedded Bond's latest tracker, "I have no intention of being left."

"Fair enough," Bond said, holding in a sigh.

He'd had to try. One last volley against the walls erected by his own actions and reputation. But clearly his missiles needed improvement. Something a little more futuristic was in order. Something with real firepower. 

Something like the most spectacular homemade Boba Fett costume Q had ever seen.  

"The gun will be recalibrated by this afternoon," Q said. "I don't think anything short of having your entire palm covered would have presented a problem, but I've incorporated the new marks as a temporary data point in your print. I'm glad you told me about them."

"You're glad you have advance warning of my costume skills," Bond retorted, prolonging the conversation against the inevitable dismissal. "You'll need the time if you're going to come up with something better."

"Yes, as Branch Head, I'm positively made of time," Q said dryly. "I certainly have nothing better to do than while away the hours sewing together some unholy spandex monstrosity."

"One of those skintight superhero outfits," Bond purred. “Now that I’d like to see.”   

Q frowned. "You never know, I could be an evil villain. Or an anti-hero."  

"But that wouldn't be much of a costume, would it?" Bond asked. "If the gossip from Accounting is right, you could just put on the suit you wear to inter-department meetings."   

"Which would be more of a costume than you'll have, if those glue gun burns are any judge of your competence," Q said, his eyebrows arched with the natural superiority of a nerd who had spent many years doing the ‘cosplay’ thing that Bond was only just beginning to learn about.   

"What they are," Bond said with dignity, "is a measure of my enthusiasm. And you know that when I'm really after a target, it's only a matter of time before I run it down."   

Was that too threatening and stalker-like? Maybe, but Q's pupils were wide in his eyes, his shoulders out and back as if he'd like to step forward and meet Bond's challenge with his own, so this was probably a good note to leave on.  

"See you before the mission," Bond said, and as he left, he did his best not to think of the sad pile of glued-together cardboard that was partially stuck to his hardwood living room floor. That had only been his first attempt, after all. He would get used to wielding this new kind of gun and do better. By the time Halloween rolled around in three weeks, he would have a costume that would make the most dedicated Star Wars geek envious, and Q would see him and realize that one did not create impeccably nerdy cosplays for a fuck-and-run. 

He had a plan. He would execute the plan. Right after he came back from this damn mission.

***

Bond's mission, infiltrating a group of gunrunners who had burst onto the international scene with an unnerving collection of biological weapons, went as quickly as he could make it. In less than four days, he slept with three women and a man. All of them gave him critical information, one of them tried to kill him, and one of them ratted him out to the group's leader, as predicted, which resulted in a brief and painful tour of their main headquarters before Bond killed everyone who seemed to deserve it and ransacked the tacky nouveau riche manor for information. 

“Do I need a hazard suit?” Bond asked as he entered the group’s primary lab area, which was a converted master bathroom. He had his gun in one hand and his mobile in the other. He made quick use of the phone’s camera and it uploaded pictures of incriminating paperwork and expensive-looking mini-fridges filled with ominous vials to the Q Branch cloud.

“Yes,” Q said, “nobody used any safety measures, and that’s why all of those people you slept with were dying of…” He paused, probably accessing Bond’s pictures. “...the plague, apparently, with all of its sexy, sexy bubos. Or possibly Spanish Flu.”

“One of them did breathe through her mouth a lot,” Bond said. “Maybe it wasn’t allergies.”

“If you’re that worried,” Q said, “then you should know that fire will destroy any remaining contaminants.” 

“You mean…”

“Yes, you can burn it down. I’ll even make sure the property goes to someone who has the money and vision to commission something tasteful and enduring for the new building.”

Arson and an elegant design aesthetic. Even if he didn’t realize it, Q knew the way to James Bond’s heart.    

***

In between sex, death, and comms with Q, Bond watched Star Wars on a stolen tablet that Q didn't know about. He looked up movie stills and fan-sites, and found a charity costume legion, the 501st, and a Boba Fett forum called "The Dented Helmet."

His earlier costume attempt had been the work of a complete amateur. He'd found a flight suit and had followed a quick cardboard DIY from there. But Q was worth more than cardboard and the ten-step approach. He might appreciate Bond's attempt to be nerdy, but he would also be right to say that, glue guns included, Bond had done longer and more difficult things to get laid before.

Q liked details. He'd once had a twenty-minute debate with Nguyen, one of his lieutenants, about whether Boba Fett was "lame" or not for dying “via Sarlacc,” the big toothy cave in _Return of the Jedi_. Q had also questioned whether Boba Fett had died at all, which was an ambiguousness of fate that Bond could relate to, and which spoke not only to Q’s level of affection for the character, but also to the depth of scrutiny he’d given the series.

In order to be persuasive, Bond would have to do his research. He'd have to be thorough. He'd have to learn new skills. 

He'd have to be really, really nerdy. 

(His new Dented Helmet forum name was W0rthIt.) 

***

The Halloween Masquerade announcement had only been released on the 9th, the day before Bond had left on his mission. People had begun chatting about possible costumes, a sign-up sheet for group efforts had circulated, and a large bowl of Quality Street chocs had appeared on Moneypenny’s desk. No one had been quite sure whether that was a trick or a treat, and as he’d left the building for the airport, Bond had overheard two junior field agents daring each other to take a piece. 

Normal office behavior for bored secret service members, in other words.

When Bond darkened MI6’s doorway on the 15th, after ditching his tracker to hunt down a Boba Fett cosplayer and have a friendly chat with them about their little hobby, he was greeted by a security guard standing below a sculpted raven perched on what could only be a bust of Pallas set above the entrance door.

“Experimental surveillance equipment,” the guard said, noticing Bond’s look.

“Subtle,” Bond said, but the raven was ringing a bell in his head. Hadn’t he seen it before?

As he tried to remember, he walked out of the semi-public entrance area and into a sea of orange.

Someone had reprinted MI6’s usual safety notices and reminders onto pumpkin-colored, pumpkin-shaped paper. Some of the pumpkins were grinning yellow triangular grins behind the bold black text. “FLU SHOTS: EVERY WEDNESDAY AND SATURDAY AT MEDICAL, 12:00-16:00,” one Jack O’Lantern read, right next to one that read, “NOT-FLU SHOTS: SCHEDULE PRIVATELY BEFORE NOVEMBER FIFTEENTH.”

As if the pumpkins weren’t enough, colonies of black paper bats lurked in whatever shadows could be found in a fluorescently-lit building. On his way to M’s office, Bond saw no less than five different people contorting themselves into trying positions in order to read the small white lettering on the bats’ bodies.

“It’s for the scavenger hunt!” one young man from Accounting said, flushed from the long stare Bond had given him. 

“A trivia kind of thing. Security too. One of the prizes is a week’s leave,” explained the young woman standing on the man’s shoulders as she used her mobile to snap a photo of the bats in the air vent she’d just opened. She leaned forward to do a closer inspection, adding, “I’ll make it up to you, dear,” after the man groaned at the shift in her weight. “Just have to check for sabotage.” She ran her fingers up and around the cluster of bats, and then reached as far as she could into the vent, as if she were checking for bugs. Perhaps she was.

The woman had taken her shoes and socks off, so it was her bare feet that Bond saw braced on the young man’s shoulders, her long, blue-painted toes curled into the soft material of his heavy autumn suit. The young man reached a hand up and wrapped his fingers around her ankle, petting there with his thumb. He had a wondering little smile on his face, as though bearing the woman’s weight and enduring the pinch of her bony toes was an unexpected privilege. Bond had seen groping snogs that were less of a PDA.

The other three people he found looking at the bats weren’t sleeping together...yet. However, their comfortable physical proximity as they searched behind a high support beam made Bond guess that they would be eventually. From the smug glance she darted at him as he passed by, Marie from Medical at least knew it and had _plans_.

Whatever happened to people snogging in supply closets and then glancing coolly at each other in public?

It was all very indiscrete, Bond thought. Then he walked into M’s office, caught Moneypenny smiling her predator’s smile and eye-fucking a cow-eyed junior field agent with her hand caught in the bowl full of chocs on her desk, and had to revise his scale of indiscretion. 

“Go right on in,” Moneypenny said, her eyes never leaving the junior agent’s reddening face. “Lani and I still need to have a little chat.”  

Bond made his report to M and accepted the usual scolding about going off-grid. Afterward, however, he couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows at the wee cluster of bats hanging under M’s desk.

“Sir?” he asked.  

“For the scavenger hunt. It’s good for morale,” M said with a straight face.

“Sir,” Bond said, and went to find someone who would give him some real answers.

*** 

“It’s good for morale,” Q said, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and he sipped his tea in a poor attempt to hide his smile.

 What a little shit. God, Bond loved him.

They were back on Q’s sofa, ostensibly for an equipment check-in, but that had consisted of a hopeful look on Q’s part and a faux-solemn headshake on Bond’s part, so now they were sitting together, their thighs less than a hand’s width away from touching, with unspoken plans to spend the next ten or fifteen minutes talking. Sometimes they spent the time not-talking, or drank something stronger than tea, but the mission had gone well. Q’s shoulders had relaxed a little the instant he’d seen Bond, and he’d gone even looser once the door was shut behind them. Today they would talk.

“You have to complete the scavenger hunt as part of a small group,” Q explained between sips of his tea. “Two to four people. It’s meant to be an exercise in teamwork and a fun way to implement certain security measures, but given the nature of some of the prizes, especially extra leave time...”

“Teams either want the time off for fucking purposes, or they start thinking that they wouldn’t mind doing some fucking during their future time off,” Bond concluded.

Q nodded. “Precisely. And with the masquerade coming up, and everyone finally feeling relaxed in the new building, the attitude is more contagious than the flu after a football match.”

Bond snapped his fingers. “October 2006!” he said. “I was on a mission in Stockholm, but Tanner sent me photos. I knew I’d seen that raven before.”

Q nodded. “Yes, Tom from Publicity says this happens every few years. People feel the need to cut loose. Therefore, the Halloween spirit is officially upon us.”

Something about the way Q gazed into the middle distance suggested that he had seen too much.

“Sexy costumes?” Bond asked.

“You’ll have a lot of competition in the shirtless department,” Q confirmed. “You may have to do some waxing if you want to maintain your status as a deity.”

“Actually,” Bond said, “I’ve been working very hard on the shirt for my costume. People will have to learn to worship me instead of my abs.” Although by ‘shirt’ he meant ‘flak vest.’

“No!” Q grinned. “You’re not still trying to do your glue gun project?” He took Bond’s hand in his and traced his fingers over Bond’s palm, searching for new burns. “Are you?” he asked, looking up at Bond when Bond didn’t answer.

“Is it so unbelievable?” Bond asked. He’d spent the previous night drawing and cutting out the flak vest pattern, as well as weighing the pros and cons of buying his own sewing machine or bribing someone into letting him borrow theirs.

Okay, maybe it was a little unbelievable.

“It’s a little unbelievable,” Q said. He put on a gruff voice, complete with a terrible Scottish accent: “‘I’m James Bond, literal sex legend, and I’d better make sure my costume is good or no one will want to sleep with me!’”

There could only be one winner to a game of impressions when one of the players was a spy. Bond’s poshed-up vowels were impeccable as he replied, nancy-voiced, “‘I’m Q, and I’m not even going to bother with a Halloween costume because going to the masquerade might distract me from my very important job of being sarcastic at everyone. What is this ‘sex’? Does it run on electricity?”

“Fuck,” Q muttered, hiding behind his mug again. His eyes were squinched shut and his shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter. 

“I’m not hearing a denial,” Bond said slyly. 

Q put his mug down, bit his lovely bottom lip until it was bright red and his almost-laughter had faded, and cleared his throat. “I’m Q, and I have an _excellent_ Halloween costume,” he said. “I’m going to the masquerade because it’s important for leaders to be involved in their community, which includes social events, and because there will be free alcohol. I know what sex is...but I might not object if, come Halloween, a certain sex god reminded me how best to praise his name.” He glanced down and back up beneath his eyelashes, measuring Bond’s response to his proposition.

Bond’s first reaction to Q’s clumsy come-on was a rather embarrassing jump of his cock as a flurry of wank-worthy images sparked through his brain and down his spine. He could teach Q to say his name, “James, James,” could reward him for sweet sluttiness, could kiss that smart mouth until they were both panting for breath. He could tickle the bottoms of his feet and his belly, could laugh with him over the little fumbles that happened during a couple’s first time as they got to know each other’s rhythms and habits in bed… 

Only Q would think that that was the only time, wouldn’t he? Q would be scratching an itch, working off the tension of leading a Branch of hormonal nerds, and perhaps even the tension of existing in the same room as Bond’s palpable regard for him.

Bond took Q’s hand in his and watched Q’s mouth curve into a confident smile. Q hadn’t thought he’d say no. Why would he? Bond slept with everyone and Q knew that Bond liked him.

“I’d rather be your partner than your god,” Bond said, and squeezed Q’s hand before letting go. “But promise me that I’ll see you at the masquerade anyway. You can see what I dress up as when I’m not a deity, and I’ll see if yours is as excellent as you say.” 

Q’s eyes widened with surprise, but he recovered quickly. “I’ll be expecting you to take more care with your costume than you do with your trackers, you know,” he said, putting them back into semi-professional territory.

“I’m not careless,” Bond said. “And that’s something that I don’t mind reminding you of if you forget it.”

***   

Halloween was only fifteen days away, which would have seemed like ample time to make a costume if not for the small fact that most people took months, if not years, to put their personal Boba Fett suit together. He’d been tempted to chuck work completely and take his usual post-mission leave so he could work on it during the workdays as well as the evenings, but if things worked out with Q, then he’d want to be able to take a few personal days. Hopefully very personal days.    

From his tailor, Bond acquired a spare sewing machine, related needles and equipment, and a brief but informative lesson about how to use them. Houndsmith was sworn to secrecy and obligingly put a fake order for a new suit into his electronic accounting software in order to account for Bond’s time in his shop. Q’s curiosity might well have been piqued by their conversation, and Bond refused to make things easy for him. 

Things weren’t easy for Bond, after all.

It had taken him hours and multiple attempts to take his measurements and create the fabric pattern for his vest the night before, and Houndsmith still chuckled softly at his efforts and made a few helpful alterations when Bond brought them out in the shop for a double-check.

“Bring me your flight suit, too,” Houndsmith said when Bond explained the project to him. “Fit is everything, and fit is my job. Your job is…”

“PVC,” Bond said with a sigh, and left to buy some Sintra. And sandpaper. And paints. And other supplies, including horse hair, because Fett was the kind of bounty hunter who was tasteless enough to wear a Wookie scalp or three.

Wookie scalps. Fuck. Was that really what was going to make Q fall into his arms?

Maybe not, but if braiding horse hair into a Wookie scalp wasn’t a sign of love, then Bond wasn’t sure what was.   

***

“You seem distracted,” Moneypenny commented.

“What?” Bond asked, and added, “Your bowl of sweets seems to have multiplied,” as an attempt at conversation. He’d been thinking about his flak vest, which he’d redone after finding out that it should be made of quilted “tackle twill” material. (Houndsmith had tsked about polyesters, but accuracy was accuracy.) He’d burned his hands a little bit while shaping his Sintra chest armor, which only turned malleable after being dropped in a vat of boiling water or otherwise exposed to heat, but they would heal, and the upside was that he was ready to attach the weathered and painted pieces to his vest using a fairly simple procedure involving steel eyelets. After that, the vest would be done except for the back slits for the jetpack--unless he wanted to try for the red illuminated display on the chest armor.

Better to finish more costume pieces before inviting the extra complications, though. His boots were done, and his pouches and Wookie scalps, but he’d been putting off the complicated-looking gauntlets, helmet, and jetpack, not to mention the back armor…  

“I can’t help it if someone feels the need to give me sweets,” Moneypenny said, caressing the rim of the second bowl with the possessiveness of a dragon. “But it’s a classic courting gesture, not the kind of mystery that should make you stare into space like an old man who’s missed his medication.”  

“I need some scuba gear,” Bond said. “Soon. Who do I need to talk to?” He pulled three My Green Bars out of his inner jacket pocket and slid them across the desk. “Just to be clear, this is a bribe, not a courting gesture.”   

Moneypenny tucked the bars into her bribes drawer, informed him that she wasn’t a telephone directory and he was lucky that she’d spent so long hanging around Q Branch after shooting him, and told him which boffin he’d need to track down—thankfully one of the old guard who didn’t tattle to Q over every little equipment question, even if it was a 00 who was asking.  

As he walked away, Bond tried not to think of the times he’d given Q a bar of the chocolate he liked just because he’d seen it in the shop and thought of him. Or the kind of Haribo sweeties that Q had brought out late one night along with a glare and instructions to never, ever tell anyone about it because he had an image as a post-Haribo adult to maintain. He had been thanked for the sweets, and he had even been hugged a couple of times (three times) when Q had been having a bad day and the sugar had been especially appreciated. However, he’d also been politely and not-so-politely disbelieved regarding his intentions.  

The scuba frame would be the base of the jetpack. He only had ten days left.

***

Bond picked up his fitted flight suit from Houndsmith. Now he had to do the five rows of stitching around the ankles (he could now—he’d had a lot of practice), and he had to introduce a “cool, blue hue” into the grey fabric with a light dye. After that would come the weathering process, something Bond actually had some experience with. Nothing blew an identity like new-looking fabric; strategic staining and stressing would help to convince people of Fett’s long experience in the bounty-hunting profession.

Only after the weathering had been completed could he attach the knee guards and check the fit on the gauntlets.

Those bloody gauntlets. With their fucking LED, the fake flamethrower, the bloody vintage calculator from the bloody sixties, and the silver fucking darts (two with black tips!). And all three of those fucking hose connectors—Christ. 

They looked damn good at least. 

But after all of the rigamarole with the flight suit was finished, he still had to do the helmet, the weapons, the kidney plate and codpiece… 

When you had to cut the Sintra shape yourself, it was hard to avoid noticing that the codpiece basically looked like outside underwear. Bond reminded himself that bounty hunters who had the wary respect of Darth Vader could wear their cock-armor wherever they pleased because no one was going to comment.

He had five days left.

***

New thread on TheDentedHelmet:

**Help needed re: Fett Helmet. URGENT.**

**W0rthIt** : To give some context to my urgency, the person I want to be with is a huge Boba Fett fan, and I hope to surprise them with this costume tomorrow and convince them that I have the dedication for a real romantic relationship. I have almost everything ready, but for some reason the helmet looks like a disaster.

I used Wizard’s specs to construct it and then applied primer and a metal coat as per Lightspeed’s photos. Five minutes after I applied the base coat, cracks began to show up in my primer. After sanding down the base coat and applying it again, the same cracks showed up. They’re all over.  

Any fast advice? There’s no time to create another helmet.

 **BlueDragon** : All hope is not lost, bro! However, you might be working through the night. You need to strip the helmet completely and start over. Lacquer thinner is your friend. Good luck!

 **Leatherman24** : If you’re staying up all night anyway, applying multiple thin coats instead of one heavy coat of primer is the better technique. Go get your nerd!

 **LeiaHuttslayer** : The same thing happened to me on my first build! Some kind of contamination. Be sure to get the old primer and metal coat COMPLETELY off before starting again--use a toothbrush in the cracks. May the Force be with you and your love life!   

 **W0rthIt** : Thank you for your quick responses, everyone. It looks like I have a lot of work ahead of me, but much less than trying to build the helmet all over again. You’re a credit to your fandom.  

***     

Bond couldn’t bring himself to go to work on the day. Besides, what would he do? Sit around for eight hours in a boiling hot, multi-layered costume until he smelled of nervous sweat and musty armpits? No, a fashionably late entrance would be to his advantage.   

Instead of going in, he poured over the 501st Legion specifications for the RotJ build, checking and rechecking his dents, decals, and the fit of his 3D-printed shin tools. Halfway through the morning, inspiration struck and he spent about two hours practicing his accent, figuring out a passable one for the Jason Wingreen version and a somewhat better one for the remastered  Temuera Morrison edition. Unsurprisingly, New Zealand fell easier on his tongue than New York. Either way, however, the crackling microphone in his helmet would hide most inconsistencies.

He forced himself to eat last night’s sushi leftovers for an early lunch and to drink two quarts of water so he wouldn’t dehydrate too badly over the course of the evening. After that, he did what he always did before a mission he couldn’t afford to fail: He took a nap.

At precisely 17:25, he woke up refreshed and aching with the need to piss. There was no time for dinner after the toilet—the masquerade started at 1800, and Q had had a long week chasing down 003 and 005. Branch Head or not, he might well try to put in an appearance and leave before seven. Bond would be there before that.

Bond would be there, and Q would see the man behind the mask instead of the spy who had shagged his way across continents, who had killed innumerable times for Queen and country, and who couldn’t bring himself to ask for or depend on someone else’s loyalty.

Q would see a man he could take a risk on. A man he could trust himself with. A man who thought he was fantastic. He would see that they could create something even more fantastic together, and that even if some parts of their new build turned out to be more trouble than Fett’s bloody gauntlets, it would all still be worth it in the end.   

Step by step, Bond put on his costume: Flight suit, flak vest, armor, cape, boots, spats, belts, pouches, Wookie scalps, four different shin tools, jetpack, gauntlets, neck seal, helmet.

He immediately started to sweat. His peripheral vision was shot and the dark visor dimmed whatever he could still see. The only weapons he had on him were an EE-3 modded out of a Webley flare gun and a distinctly non-certification boot knife that Q didn’t have to know about. 

Bond felt ready. He went out to get his nerd.       


	2. "Your eyes can deceive you. Don't trust them."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond goes to the MI6 Masquerade, and then to Nando's.

Bond had been circulating for forty minutes. The savory smell of the hors d’oeuvres wafted temptingly under his helmet, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in hours, but nothing ruined the intimidating bounty hunter look like sauce smudges on your visor. Besides, his stomach was in knots. Where was Q? 

Yesterday, Bond had asked Q if he was still going to go, thinking that perhaps some last-minute crisis would need Q's personal attention. Q had said that Amir, one of the boffins who had drawn the short straw for monitoring duty, was more than capable of handling the Branch for one evening; he had said that he would be here. 

Bond kept an eye out for Q’s unmistakable mop of hair, for the plump curve of his lips beneath a half-mask, for the flash of his pale hands moving through the air as he explained something. As six forty-five turned into seven, he became adept at slipping the little champagne glasses under his visor and tossing them back in one smooth Mandalorian motion. 

Six’s entertaining hall was filled with bright spandex, plush historical drama-wear, bared skin, masked faces, and a kind of frenetic energy that left people’s hands trailing in intimate places beneath the flickering lights and fake cobwebs. The deliberate dissonance in the music played by the “spooky” string quartet in one corner only ratcheted up Bond’s tension, and he let it show in his posture. Although a daring few still asked for his photo, including Bill Tanner and his wife, who had dressed as mated wolves, the pleasure of recognition for a job well done stayed muted beneath his anxiety. 

Where was Q? 

At seven-fifteen, Bond made his way over to Nguyen, who was wearing a gold-spangled brown leather dress, boots, and wrist guards. “Xena, Warrior Princess,” she introduced herself with a curt smile, and nodded at a blonde in a similarly patterned bikini top and short skirt. “My Gabrielle is getting me drinks.” 

A fast ‘Taken’message to keep him from getting the wrong idea. With her impressive biceps and breasts accentuated so well by her leather goods, Nguyen must have been hit on by a hundred nerds before him. 

“You look wonderful, but I’m here about Q,” Bond clarified, still in-character with his New Zealand accent and crackling microphone voice, like he had been all night.

As predicted, Nguyen’s smile became more genuine. “Oh?” she asked, raising a teasing eyebrow. “Has someone put a bounty on him? Should I be worried?” 

“Let’s just say that I’d like to find him,” Bond said. 

Nguyen hesitated. “Well, if I see him, I’ll tell him that he’s wanted,” she said. 

Bond’s stomach sank. Nguyen was a good 2IC trying to stay neutral about her leader’s whereabouts when talking to an unknown subject, but her “if” loomed like a mountain in his consciousness. 

He had to know for sure. “Wait,” he said, and raised his helmet for just a moment to show his face. “He’s not here?” 

Even through the dim light behind the dark visor, Bond could see how her eyes widened. It was hard to miss the way she clapped her hand to her mouth. “Oh my god,” she said. “Oh my _god_.” She was only a little older than Q, and just about as clever. It wouldn’t be hard for her to put his intentions together. “Bond, I’m so sorry—he left early today,” she said. “He had a—” 

Bond raised his hand to stop her. He couldn’t take the painfully earnest look on her face, and besides, Gabrielle was only a few meters away now. “It’s all right,” he said. “Just keep it under your hat, would you?” 

Nguyen nodded. “I could text him?” she offered. 

Bond shook his head. “Don’t tell him before I can,” he said, and knowing that she _knew_ , that he couldn’t hide his disappointment from her, he added, “I was just leaving. Enjoy the rest of your night.” 

***

The occasional passionate moan emerged from behind Six’s closed doors as Bond wandered down to Q Branch to plan his next move. It was a happy Halloween for those people! 

He sat down in the Q Branch rec room, staying away from Q’s office. Q would text him if he got an alert for Bond’s palmprint on his lock, and what would Bond even say? 

“I’m in your office because I wish we were kissing on your sofa right now. Or talking on it. Or even sitting at opposite ends of it because you’re miffed that I got some detail wrong on my costume and didn’t consult you about it like I should have. Also, you’re a lying bastard for not showing up when you said you would. XOXO—Bond” 

He couldn’t very well wear his costume in the harsh, hungover light of the day after Halloween. His plan was ruined. 

Maybe Q had figured it out and that was why he’d gone home early. He didn’t want to have to deal with Bond’s patheticness. Bond had always known that his use of the in-Branch 3D printers could come back to bite him, but he’d been so careful, damn it! 

Even if Q had left for some other reason, Bond had shown his cards. Nguyen was a good girl who might let him tell Q himself, but she wouldn’t wait forever. She’d mention it to Q if he didn’t, and Q would be forced to acknowledge the situation. 

He had to come up with a way to avoid Q’s pitying looks and a series of “subtle” reminders that Q didn’t date field agents for reasons of self-preservation. He had to put their working relationship back to rights. He had to make it look like he hadn’t tried to reach out for the kind of happiness that he clearly wasn’t meant to have. 

He had to get laid. 

While wearing a Boba Fett costume. 

Bond helped himself to a couple of swigs of some Q Branch moonshine, and then did what every sensible British person did when they hadn’t eaten in eight hours and planned to go on the pull later: he went to Nando’s for some peri-peri chicken and chips. 

*** 

Bond followed the familiar neon sign to the Vauxhall Arch Nando’s, a pretty brick-faced building sitting just beneath the train tracks, and entered through the revolving front door. The tunnel-shaped room blazed with light on both sides, with striking wooden tiles covering the walls and ceiling once the exposed brickwork fell away, so that Bond always had a faint sensation of entering a Viking longhouse of old, one that sold well-seasoned meat in generous portions at affordable prices. His stomach rumbled and some of his tension eased away. It wasn’t gourmet, but nothing quite said “You’re home here in England” like a guilty pleasure meal at the Vauxhall Nando’s. 

This place was bustling with costumes as well, but there was a greater variety of people here than there had been at Six: a few families with children dressed up as superheroes in tutus, cuddly vegetables, and the classic toilet paper mummy and tin foil robot; a pack of teenagers dressed as bright-haired characters from a series that Bond didn’t know, plus an obligatory Frankenstein; young adults mostly in witch and wizard robes, who were in front of Bond in line; and a large, middle-aged group decked out like Mario characters and Ninja Turtles, spread out across four different tables. 

There were only two other people going solo: One of them was a caped Dracula who kept looking at his watch, likely waiting for a late partner (Bond empathized). The other was a Spiderman with a slender, jutting chest who was sitting at a table near the back. Spiderman kept peering in Bond’s direction when he thought Bond wasn’t looking. 

Maybe it wouldn’t be as hard as Bond had thought to find a nerd who appreciated good craftsmanship. 

Bond ordered his peri-peri chicken and chips, collected his cutlery, and had a meal in front of him in under ten minutes. It was a little awkward eating with his helmet on, but Bond had managed a meal with his hands tied behind his back before, and the mask felt warm and safe to hide behind now that he was used to it. 

The mask was also his hook into Spiderman. Not only did Bond want to enable Spiderman’s Boba Fett fantasy, but if the homemade-looking webshooters on his wrist were any indication, then this Spiderman was a fan of dedication. Bond’s efforts to stay in-character would be a turn-on, not a turn-off. 

Sure enough, Bond had only just finished his first chicken thigh when Spiderman left his plate and three empty bottles of Sagres and walked over, revealing muscular calves and thighs, a soft belly, and what looked to be a sweet little cock. The whole package was wrapped up in skin-tight, web-covered, red and blue spandex. Very promising. 

(The red toe shoes were a little weird, but Bond was wearing wookie scalps, so he couldn’t exactly throw stones.) 

Spiderman’s walk and overall carriage were as confident as you’d expect from a wise-cracking webslinger, if a touch wobbly from his beers. However, when he got to Bond’s table, he ducked his head, gestured to his throat, and held a tablet outstretched in his hands so that Bond could read the writing on his text-screen: 

_I’m afraid that I had a bit of a chemical accident while I was making my webshooters today, so I’ve lost my voice. I’m sorry to bother you while you’re eating—feel free to tell me to fuck off—but your costume looks amazingly detailed. You made it yourself?_

“I did,” Bond said, making sure to use his best New Zealand accent to go with his microphone’s hissing. “Please, sit down. Your costume looks very accurate too.” Bond swept his gaze up and down Spiderman’s rangy physique, noting that they were of a height. “I’d love to hear more about your webshooters. Or read more.” 

Spiderman’s entire body perked up when he heard Bond, his arms spreading wider and his head tilting with interest. His fingers flew as he typed: _You even have the voice! I see you’ve gone with the remastered version. I’d love to hear more about your costume. Do you mind if I sit next to you? Awkward, I know, but…_ Spiderman gestured wordlessly at his tablet. It would be more awkward to constantly pass the tablet across the table when Spiderman could just sit next to him so Bond could see his messages as they were typed instead. 

Bond didn’t mind, but being trapped on the inside of a booth by a stranger was a little more of a security risk than he could stand. “That makes sense,” Bond said, nodding, and got out of the booth. “Please, sit.” He ushered Spiderman into the far end of the booth, explaining, “You never know when you’ll have to run after a bounty.” 

_Very in-character. ;)_

“I try,” Bond said. He was no expert in text-speak—Q could type a hundred different dialects of Internet—but he was pretty sure that a winky face was supposed to be flirty. From behind his visor, he stared at Spidey’s red mask with its opaque eyes; the fabric had seemed to shift in the cheeks when he’d heard Bond, perhaps indicating a smile, but that was the only facial cue he could rely on. 

Of course, Spidey had the same issue—compounded, in fact, by the helmet and the stiff, heavy layers Bond was wearing, which obscured his already quiet body language even more. He would have to try to emote with his voice and be a little broader in his movements, or he’d run the risk of being boring. 

_So,_ Spiderman typed, _before we talk geek about your costume specs, what has it been like to be Boba Fett?_ He rested his chin on his hands, an exaggerated listening pose. Spiderman had figured out their body language barriers too. 

Smart, for a nerd. 

“Surprisingly fun,” Bond said, and couldn’t help but smile and shake his head as he remembered. “I got saluted by grown adults while I walked here. There were lots of waves and casual pictures. I knew he was popular, but I didn’t realize how many people would instantly recognize me.” 

_Wait...is this your first night out?! Congratulations!_ Spidey gave him two thumbs-up and an enthusiastic shoulder pat. _But how could you not know that you’re a pop culture icon? You built the suit!_ Spidey’s hands spread wide, plaintive and questioning. 

To admit or not to admit… 

Fuck it. Bond was never seeing Spidey again after tonight. Might as well tell someone the whole story. “I’m not really a huge _Star Wars_ fan,” he said. 

Spidey’s hand rose up to his lips like Nguyen’s had earlier. 

“However,” Bond continued, “there’s this man at work who is.” 

_Ohhh._

Although Bond interspersed his narrative with a few costume tech sideplots in order to keep Spiderman’s intellectual interest whetted, what came out of him with Spidey’s occasional prompting and understanding nods was a Death Star-sized wad of emotion. 

“He’s so brilliant,” Bond said after he finished. “It would be fine if he was just clever, or just funny, or just a reliable man who I trust with my life, who never takes my shit. But he’s all of that, and sexy, and I’m a man-whore with a risky job and no future prospects. He doesn’t need that in his personal life. It was probably better that he didn’t show up and see me today.” Bond rested his helmeted head in his hands, feeling his chest tighten and his throat close up. 

Spiderman stroked his unarmored bicep soothingly. 

Bond realized two things: 1) Despite his intention to keep the story light, he’d unwittingly entered the Drunk Confessional stage of Q Branch moonshine imbibement and begun moaning about another man, which was a terrible way to pull. 2) He really was pathetic. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “This is—” 

_It’s fine! Well, no, it’s awful because you’re in love with a shit, but I think it was important for you to let that out._

“Or it could have stayed in,” Bond muttered. 

_I can’t speak to your job or your love life, but you devoted a massive amount of time, energy, and money into your costume, not as a bribe to get your coworker to sleep with you, but because you thought he would like it, and you wanted to show him that you accept who he is, Star Wars nerd and all, and you hope that he’ll accept who you are too. If your coworker is as brilliant as you say he is, and if he’s already attracted to you, then he would be a fool not to see what you could create together and give you a chance._

“A self-preserving fool, maybe,” Bond said. “Getting mixed up with—with the best bounty hunter in the Galaxy wouldn’t be smart.” 

_Hmm. There comes a point when self-preservation becomes cowardice instead of intelligence. Sometimes you have to take a risk. If he’s as smart as you say, then he’ll know that!_

Bond lifted his head from his hands and barked out a little laugh. Relationship counseling from a masked menace. “I should just bring you in to talk to him,” he said. “Spiderman for the defense.” 

_That would be Matt Murdock. You know, Daredevil? He’s the one who’s a lawyer in the comics._

“Ah,” Bond said. 

Spiderman facepalmed and typed, _Why, yes, I am a real nerd and not just dressed up as one for Halloween._

Bond clapped him on the shoulder. “If you’ll recall, I like nerds.” 

Spiderman put his fingertips to his mouth, bashfully turned his head, and waved an admonishing hand at him—‘oh, stop it, you.’ 

Cute. Probably just as cute in bed, shivering and tugging at Bond because he didn’t have the voice to urge him onward. Bond was reminded of his new mission: 1) Have sex with a nerd who appreciated Bond’s costume and hard work, and who had no preconceptions about Bond’s office bike behavior. 2) Show that lucky nerd the time of their life, because if Q wasn’t going to benefit from Bond’s sexual frustration, then someone should. 3) Go back to the office and brag about his conquest so he and Q could pretend that Bond had made the costume just to score some sweet Anonymous Nerd arse, and neither of them had to acknowledge Bond’s awkward, inconvenient emotions. 

“You know,” Bond said, “I like nerds so much that I think I’d even like to take a look at your...webshooter.” 

Spiderman held out his wrist so Bond could look at it. 

Ah. 

Well, Spiderman had listened to him bitch about his gauntlets, after all. He bent over to examine the webshooter, which appeared much as Bond would have expected: a silver cylinder strapped to Spiderman’s forearm with a release mechanism tucked away in his palm. 

“Does it work?” Bond asked, remembering how Spiderman had lost his voice. 

Spiderman straightened his spine and lifted his chin, held up one finger—‘wait’—and arranged one of the thigh bones from Bond’s plate on a spare napkin. When he was sure that Bond was watching, he flicked his wrist with a deliberate curl of his fingers and sent a short stream of white fluid flying out onto the bone. 

“Not bad,” Bond said, nodding his approval. He’d seen some Spiderman cartoons as a child, and one of the movies. The webbing looked good. There was just one thing that he couldn’t help but comment on… 

_Do NOT make a semen pun. Trust me, I’ve already heard all of them from my coworkers._

The sentence that came out of Bond’s mouth changed to, “Isn’t it supposed to harden up like concrete?” The webbing still looked shiny and wet. 

Spiderman’s shoulders drooped. _Yes. I’ve been working on inducing that particular characteristic, but as it is, it still takes a few minutes to harden. (Yes, like semen. Shut up.) It would be excellent for securing unconscious people! However, Spiderman isn’t known for beating people into insensibility. It’s very much a work in progress, unfortunately._

“Wait,” Bond asked, “are you saying that it would hold an unconscious person even after they woke up?” He peered a little closer at the webbing through his dark helmet visor. 

_Oh, yes! Of course. It’s been known to hold up to 2000 Newtons of force. In a couple of minutes you won’t be able to separate that bone from the napkin without using a special chemical solvent, for example. (I have the solvent here, just in case.)_ Spiderman indicated the webshooter on his opposite arm. 

“Impressive,” Bond said. “You could probably market that.” 2000 Newtons was a huge amount of force in human terms, if not in mechanical ones. Hell, if Spiderman got the timing right, then Bond could even use it on missions. A little canister of spider silk would be much handier to conceal than, say, a few lengths of good rope, or (when he was improvising) a roll of duct tape. 

_Probably. But it’s just an experiment—every October I work on it a little more. I’ve also been experimenting with wall-climbing materials on my gloves and shoes. That’s been going less well than the webshooter, but at least I can still walk._

“Hence the toes,” Bond said, and then, “Could I have a look at those too?” 

From Spiderman’s startled pause, that had done the trick where the terrible webshooter pun hadn’t. 

_If you like_ , Spiderman typed. He wriggled in his seat, drew his left leg up until it was out from under the table, and draped his shapely calf across Bond’s lap. _See something interesting?_

“Mmm.” Bond sent his gloved hand on a long, slow glide down Spiderman’s leg, starting at the knee and ending with a careful examination of each covered, curling toe. “Riveting. And your gloves?” 

Spiderman was breathing faster now, his slender chest rising and falling noticeably. He held his gloved hand out for Bond to take. 

Spidey’s red gloves were thinner than Bond’s quilted military parade ones, Bond saw as he brought his hand up to eye level, with raised ridges on the fingertips that might have been evidence of wall-climbing technology or might have just been so Spidey could keep typing on his tablet. “Can I—” Bond started to ask, but Spidey gave him a thumbs-up with his other hand before he could even finish his sentence. Bond couldn’t see through the mask to his eyes, but his face was turned in Bond’s direction, his body tense as he waited to see what Bond would do. 

Bond peeled Spiderman’s glove off and set it on the table, revealing a pale, long-fingered hand with well-trimmed nails. 

Bond had sweat pooling on his chest, around his groin, and in the small of his back beneath his kidney plate. It was dripping down his neck and temples. Every time he breathed out, he could smell the spicy, secondhand peri-peri as his breath hit his visor. Being Boba Fett was physically uncomfortable. 

But it was worth it. Bond guided Spiderman’s fingers under his visor and took two of them between his lips, and the low, broken noise that emerged from the back of Spiderman’s throat was everything Bond had ever dared to imagine coming out of Q and more. 

He mouthed at Spiderman’s fingers, enveloping them in warm, sucking pressure and tonguing the gap between them lewdly. The unexpected scrape of his teeth made Spiderman gasp, and then gasp again, before Bond pulled back so he could tease the sensitive fingertips with little nips and kitten licks. 

“Ah, aah, hhh—” came a croaking sound, and Spiderman rapped Bond’s visor with his knuckles, squirming to get his leg out of Bond’s lap. 

Bond gave Spiderman’s fingers one last nip before releasing them. 

_PUBLIC_ , typed Spiderman with his gloved hand, with a vehement gesture in the direction of his hardening cock and a meaningful scan of the crowded restaurant around them. One of the gray-haired Ninja Turtles in front of them gave Bond a wink when she saw him looking around, but the Frankenstein across the aisle had his hands clapped over his eyes. 

Right. Of course Spiderman wouldn’t want to erotically scar the patrons of this fine establishment. For that matter, Bond didn’t fancy getting kicked out for being un-family-friendly. This was his favorite Nando’s. 

_It seems like you’d be into a crossover, Mr. Fett_ , Spiderman typed. _But I thought you had other commitments?_ He cocked his head. 

“He’s worth a lot to me,” Bond said. “But I can’t capture him in carbonite. I have to respect what he wants, and it’s not me.” 

_:(_

“We’ll both survive,” Bond said. “And right now, I’d like to survive with you.” He curled his palm around Spiderman’s knobby knee. 

Spiderman scooted so their thighs were touching and bussed the side of Bond’s visor in a closed-mask kiss. _In that case_ , he typed, _you can call me Peter, if Spiderman doesn’t suit you. Or Mr. Parker if you’re into that._

“Peter it is,” Bond said dryly, unable to imagine himself calling out, “Spiderman! Spiderman!” in the throes of passion. 

_Good. Mr. Parker is what my science students call me, and that’s not sexy._

“Very in-character,” Bond said. He waited for a reaction, but there was only silence. “I’m winking behind my visor, just so you know.” 

Spidey tossed his head with a low, rasping sound that must have been a little laugh. _I just have to use the toilet_ , he typed. _Then we can leave?_

“I’ll call a hotel,” Bond said, and Spiderman nodded. 

Bond let Spiderman out of the booth, his cock safely down again, before pulling out his mobile to call one of his usual places. If he let them know ahead of time that he’d be the one in the Boba Fett costume with the Spiderman on his arm, then Kim or Jamie on the front desk would spare him the bother of an in-person check-in. They knew all of his information already. 

Hotels were his usual protocol for one-night stands, which was what Spiderman was, no matter how charmingly nerdy and understanding he’d been. He only had room for one boffin in his heart. However, even though his first instinct was to bundle both of their sweaty arses into the shower for some nice, clean blowjobs under the hot water, he liked Spiderman enough that he’d leave the costume on if that was what Spiderman really wanted. 

Someone might as well have their dream come true today. 

*** 

They were crawling through the Halloween traffic toward The Grange Holborn when Bond broke the silence to ask, “What do you like? When you’re in bed.” 

_I like not talking about my sex life where other people might hear_ , Spiderman typed with a pointed jerk of his head at the thin partition separating them from the driver. _However...if you were willing to take this opportunity to practice your typing skills, then I suppose we wouldn’t be talking, would we?_

“I suppose we wouldn’t,” Bond said aloud, just to be contrary. 

_I don’t have to tell you, you know. I could let you figure it out on your own. Maybe you’d never realize how much I love it when someone gets a good hold on my hair. Not too tight, but quick tugs or solid pressure. You can guide me if I let you, or I can pull back on it and feel how you won’t let me go until I ask. Or until I tap out, I suppose, since I can’t talk. Three raps, like I did on your helmet earlier._

_Maybe you wouldn’t notice how much I love sucking cock. I love feeling your thighs shudder and your belly clench as you hold yourself back from thrusting into my mouth. You’d let me do it my way, wouldn’t you? I’m a scientist—we love to explore. I’d find out what you liked best, and you’d be very helpful and tell me when things felt good, wouldn’t you?_

_Maybe you wouldn’t guess how nicely I would squirm for you if you rimmed me before you fucked me. You’d have to pin me down and keep me from accidentally kneeing you in the face, because I get so overwhelmed as to forget courtesy when there’s a tongue in my arse and teeth grazing my hole._

_Maybe you wouldn’t see...well, you just don’t know what you might not see, do you?_

_You could keep talking and not find out what else you’re missing. Or you could tell me what YOU like. On the tablet, if you please._ Spiderman patted him on the thigh and casually refrained from moving his hand away afterward. 

Bond stuffed his gloves into his belt pouch and gripped the tablet in his palms so he could type with his thumbs. **How can I say no to an invitation like that?**

 **I like making people forget their courtesy because they feel so good. I like fucking people, feeling their bodies accept me, and I like it when they ask for more. I like the three-finger check-in system for people who can’t talk—three for when you’re doing well, two for slow down, and one or a tap-out for stop. I like teasing. I like freedom of movement and switching positions.** Bond hesitated before adding, **I don’t like feeling trapped, so make sure my hands are free if you’re on top of me.**

**...Does this talk of hair-pulling and rimjobs mean you’re not interested in sexy bounty hunter versus superhero role play this evening?**

Spiderman’s grip on his thigh had tightened as Bond had typed, and, yes—Bond saw after an unsubtle check, because no one could look at anything subtly while they were trying to see through a Boba Fett visor—Spiderman’s cock had taken a renewed interest in the proceedings. Eager little thing. 

_I feel exposed._ Spiderman mimed patting his cock and trying to pry it into its resting position, startling Bond into a laugh. 

Laughter was the most promising sign yet that Bond would be able to salvage something fun out of a disappointing evening. And from Nando’s—who would have thought? 

_As to your question, I’d love to be your captured bounty sometime, or the superhero trying to seduce you onto the side of justice. Maybe we can do that for round two. Right now I’m conscious of how much this fabric doesn’t breathe, and I’m hoping I can persuade you into taking a nice naked shower with me. It must be boiling for you under all of those layers._

Bond nodded, tugging at his sweaty neck seal for emphasis. Yes! Shower time was a go. How had he lucked out and found a nerd practical and unselfconscious enough to recognize and deal with the hot, sweaty aftermath of longterm costume wear? 

_Besides_ , Spiderman continued, _I’m looking forward to meeting the man behind the mask._

The man behind the mask. 

Fuck. 

The naive hope of Bond’s original intentions roared through him. The idea of Q’s wide-eyed face when Bond revealed himself had kept him going through bastardly hot armor and last-minute helmet disasters. Q would comprehend the depth of his feeling, he’d thought, and the seriousness of his intentions. He’d see a man worth the risk of an unhappy ending. 

Instead, Bond would see Spiderman’s wide eyes and know that the intense work of these past few weeks hadn’t gone into showing his love, but into further sabotaging his own desires, into maintaining a status quo he hated. What had Spiderman said? “There comes a point when self-preservation becomes cowardice”? 

He had faced global networks of evil with Q. Tomorrow, they could face up to Bond’s feelings together too. 

**I can’t do this** , Bond typed out. **You’ve been wonderful, but you were right. I have another commitment, and my damn feelings are being a cockblock.**

 _Well. Shit._ Spiderman looked down and drummed his fingers on his thigh, a gesture so like Q that Bond’s heart ached to see it. _I understand, of course. You can’t help your feelings. I hope your coworker realizes how lucky he is._

“You’re beautiful,” Bond said aloud, resting his bare hands on Spiderman’s shoulders so Spiderman would look at him. “You’re funny and smart, and you’ve kept me from doing something I would have regretted. I’d give you a night full of orgasms as a thank you, but that would be a little self-defeating.” 

_Just a tad._

“Is there something else I can do for you?” Bond asked. “Or...something that Boba Fett can do?” 

_There is one thing._

“Name it,” Bond said. 

Spiderman covered his eyes with his hand, looking embarrassed, but after a few moments he typed, _Right after you get out of the cab at the hotel, but before you shut the door, could you say, “The Sarlacc found me somewhat indigestible, Solo”? In your best voice?_

There would be no masked vigilante to make Bond’s case for him tomorrow, and intentionally or not, Q would probably stomp all over Bond’s heart with his suede chukka boots. But Bond couldn’t help but smile. At least right now he could do a simple thing that would make a kind-hearted nerd happy. “As you wish,” Bond said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "As you wish" is one of Boba Fett's four lines of dialogue from the original trilogy. The fact that it also means "I love you" to anyone who has watched The Princess Bride is a pleasant bonus. :D


	3. "Do or do not. There is no try."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond meets with Q. Twice.

Bond tossed and turned all night, and finally got up at five-thirty the next morning. He worked out, cooked himself some scrambled eggs and sausages, and checked that he had enough scotch to deal with the aftermath of the day. It would be nice if Q fell into his arms this morning, but the smart money was on an outcome involving humiliating rejection. Realistically, Bond could only hope that Q would at least be convinced of his seriousness and stop his agonizingly casual propositions, and that the resulting period of awkwardness before they reached a new understanding would be brief. 

He chose his suit with care. Q’s eyes had always lingered a little longer than usual when he’d worn this blue one, but it was old enough that Bond could spitefully remove it from his wardrobe if things went the way he thought they would. 

Before he went in, he double-checked his work email: Nothing from Q. No new scheduled appointments with the shrinks to discuss unhealthy attachments, either—not that Q would do that to him. Marie from Medical's team had won the scavenger hunt and “the anonymous Boba Fett” had received an honorary mention in the costume contest. 

Great. He would probably get an honorary mention in Q’s heart, too. 

Q’s schedule could vary, missions and time zones being what they were, but he generally liked to be in the office by seven. Bond was in at six-thirty. 

He sat on Q’s sofa. Waited. Considered his approach. 

‘Nguyen might be able to tell you…’ No, best not to mention Nguyen at first; involving another person would only complicate matters. 

‘I missed you last night.’ Too honest? Maybe he should lure Q into the conversation more gently. 

‘Where were you, you little shit?’ Humorous but perhaps too accusing. 

Shit. Shit. Shit. He hadn’t been trained for this. 

Q’s office door opened. 

Bond leaped to his feet. “Q,” he said. “Er. How was your Halloween?” 

Q raised his eyebrows and changed course, heading towards the sofa instead of his desk. “It was fine,” he said, and sat down, patting the sofa in invitation. 

Bond stayed standing. Q’s voice was a little deeper than normal, like he’d had a cold. Had he left because he was sick, and not in order to avoid confronting Bond’s uncomfortable emotions? Did that mean he still had no idea what Bond had done? 

Q frowned at him for a moment, but continued, “Well, I should say more than fine. It was one of the most interesting nights I’ve had in a while. I met a Boba Fett with a brilliant costume and a fantastic mouth.” He smiled. It was a distinctly wistful, pleasantly glowing kind of smile. It was the kind of smile that Bond caught glimpses of in the mirror when he thought about Q while he was brushing his teeth. 

No. No, this could not be happening. Q couldn’t have a crush on another Boba Fett. Probably an _inferior_ Boba Fett. This Boba Fett had probably ordered his helmet off Ebay! 

“Did he have a Casio MQ-1 calculator keypad on his left gauntlet?” Bond demanded. “What about the darts? Did two of them have black tips? Did the dents and weathering on the armor match visual references?” 

Q blinked and sat back. “I had no idea you were so into cosplay,” he said slowly, with a squint that meant he’d be delving into Bond’s online history later, and he _would_ figure out a way around the superficial tricks Bond had implemented to keep Q from catching onto his plan. That was fine. Bond wasn’t going to hide anymore. 

“I have an interest,” Bond said, still trying to figure out how to phrase ‘I built a Boba Fett costume for you’ without sounding crazy. 

Q shook his head. “Well, you’d be hard-pressed to match this fellow. He had everything except the red display in the chest armor.” 

Damn. Bond hadn’t had that either. He’d planned to get to it on the last day, after he’d finished the helmet, but with the cracking problem he’d barely been able to prime, paint, and weather it in time. “Genuine horsehair for the Wookie scalps?” he asked. “Tackle-twill quilting on the gloves?” 

“Yes, and yes,” Q said, looking entertained. “You really are into this, aren’t you? I should show you the gadget I made for my costume! Ordinarily, I’d wait until I had perfected it, but it’ll only go back in the prototype bin until next Halloween.” He rummaged in his shoulder bag and pulled out a silver device that looked very, very familiar. 

“It still has a bug or two,” Q was saying. “I had to skip the Halloween party yesterday and ended up gargling saltwater for half the night after an unexpected chemical reaction. I’m sorry I missed you, by the way. What was your costume?” 

Bond’s face had gone very cold. It felt like a fist had tightened around his lungs. 

Q was looking around for some hapless office supplies to test his webshooter on. “Now, the webbing stays wet for a few minutes, but once it dries it can hold a force of—”

“—up to 2000 Newtons,” Bond said, Boba Fett-voiced. 

Q whipped his head around to look at him, the webshooter clenched in his hand like a weapon. “What did you say?” 

Bond’s face went from ice cold to boiling hot. He had to be flushing fit to burst. “My costume was Boba Fett,” he said. “And yours was Spiderman. We met at Nando’s without recognizing each other, and in less than two hours I managed to confess my love for you, proposition you, and turn you down in favor of yourself. So if you don’t mind,” he turned to leave, “I’m going to go drink until I’ve destroyed all of the brain cells related to the past twenty-four hours.” 

“Wait!” Q said, and Bond heard him scrambling off the sofa behind him. “James! Wai—” 

Bond slammed the door behind him and walked with his best places-to-be stride around the corner, out of the Branch, and out of the new MI6 building altogether. 

God. The things he’d said. The things he’d done. The things he’d _almost_ done. 

Q liked having his hair pulled. Q liked sucking cock. Q liked being rimmed. 

Bond was an idiot. How had he not recognized his own Quartermaster? He was a 00 agent, for Christ’s sake. 

He would have to ask Nguyen to run his missions now, he realized. For the next while. Otherwise the humiliation might literally be fatal. He’d be too embarrassed to function. 

At least he didn’t have to worry about telling Q anymore. He’d already laid himself bare in excruciating detail. 

Bond went home, stuffed his Boba Fett costume in a closet where he didn’t have to look at it, and did curl-ups until he nearly threw up. Then he knocked back a few fingers of his least-favorite scotch and crawled naked into bed. 

Even 00 agents had times when the only thing they could do was hope things would be better when they woke up. 

*** 

The late afternoon sun was filtering through Bond’s window blinds when he opened his eyes, and he spent a long, peaceful moment blinking awake and enjoying the soft comfort of his mattress. Then he remembered that he’d discovered a rare form of trauma that he hadn’t been inoculated against yet. Talk about novelty. 

He was about to bury his head under his pillow in a half-hearted attempt at self-suffocation when he smelled it. 

Nando’s. Spicy peri-peri chicken and chips. 

Bond sat up and sniffed. The smell was coming from down the hall. It was probably what had woken him up. 

He slipped on his robe and tucked his Walther into his pocket, just in case the hungry intruder _wasn’t_ a certain nerd who’d come to hash things out like adults instead of letting Bond’s panicked fleeing do all the talking. 

(In his defense, he’d had a nasty shock.) 

Bond found Q sitting at the long wooden table in the dining room that Bond had used for a workspace. Apparently unbothered by the errant drops of paint and sealant, Q had set the table for two, silverware out and plates heaped high, with a bottle of Sagres for himself and a bottle of water for Bond. His shoulders were hunched and he was drumming his fingers on his thigh. 

He was wearing the the tailored red cashmere jumper that Bond had given him for Christmas last year and the checked trousers that made Bond wish he had a fireplace just so he could throw them in. 

“Halloween’s over,” Bond said, “so you might want to take those trousers off.” He watched Q’s startled little jump with a hint of pleasure. 

“Maybe later,” Q said, gesturing for Bond to sit down. “I didn’t get a chance to say something to Mr. Fett last night, and I thought we might finish our conversation before making any decisions about undressing.” 

The peri-peri smelled really good, and it was no use delaying the inevitable. Bond sat down in the chair next to Q. 

Q ate a couple of chips, seemingly chewing something over in his mind as well as his mouth, and then said, “I have a coworker who I never dreamed of dating. I could tell that he liked me because he gave me little gifts and kept asking me out, but I worried that I was just one more mountain for him to climb, that his actions were motivated by a desire to conquer rather than to commit, and that once he got what he wanted he’d search out a new challenge, no matter how affectionate he seemed to be while he was on the hunt.” 

“But—” 

“And if I ever considered that this might not be the case,” Q said, talking over him with a pointed glare that softened as he continued, “I had only to remember that this coworker was in a risky of line of work. I had grown to depend on his affection. In fact, I was pretty sure we’d managed to become friends. Any time he was sent out into the field might be his last, and how much more difficult would that last day be if we were even more entangled than we already are?” 

There wasn’t much Bond could say to that. He’d been the one left behind before, with Vesper, and only a selfish man would ask Q to go through such a miserable experience. 

Bond was selfish. “Q—” 

“I-was-wrong,” Q said, all in a rush, and then, slower, “I was wrong.” 

Bond rocked back. “You—you were?” he asked. A feeling he’d lost as he’d spoken to Nguyen the night before began to spread its wings inside him. 

“Yes,” Q said. “But I was right about myself; I’d be a fool not to see what we could create together.” Q lay his hand—the hand he’d used to ruin people and nations; the hand that Bond had mouthed beneath his visor last night—on top of Bond’s. “I do try not to be a fool, you know.” 

Bond swallowed. Q’s hand was warm on top of his, his eyes green and intent as he waited. Q could wait all day, that was clear. Bond could see it in the feline curve of his sweet, red mouth. He could read it in the easy lines of Q’s body as it angled towards him; this was the look of a man who knew he was right where he was supposed to be. 

Q was offering him everything he’d ever wanted, or at least a chance at everything. 

“You’re sure you’re not an enemy spy?” Bond asked, because he had to. “Or otherwise working against Queen and country?” 

Q glanced away. “Well,” he said, a guilty look flashing across his face, “there might be a few things that the Queen would find...questionable.” 

“Aside from routinely violating privacy laws, doing unspeakable things to people that Six can’t officially go after, and fixing the lotto numbers when you want to feel good about yourself,” Bond clarified. 

“Ah!” Q brightened. “Then, yes. We’re good. No treason here.” 

“What about a tragic past or disreputable history that might come back to haunt you?” Bond asked. Those weren’t deal-breakers, since Bond didn’t have room to talk when it came to either of those things, but it would be good to know. 

“I was bullied as a child for being queer and smart,” Q said, “and obviously I got good at hacking via lots of practice, which sometimes involved contact with unscrupulous individuals.” He raised pointed eyebrows in Bond’s direction. 

Bond smirked. He had scruples. Probably at least as many scruples as Q. 

“However, my parents are still alive, my past crimes have been disclosed to Six except for the ones that were really embarrassing, and I now live on a legitimate income based on my salary and various patents rather than on the funds stolen from various ill-tempered crime lords.” Q paused, his eyes tracking to the right, and nodded his head as if counting. “Yes, I think that’s it.” 

“Good,” Bond said. “Good.” He hesitated, but then went for broke. He had to know for sure, and Q was shit at lying, so the best way was to just ask. “This isn’t a pity-date thing, is it?” 

Q’s mouth actually dropped open for a moment. 

Bond went very still, which was what 00s were trained to do instead of squirming. 

“Yes, James,” Q said slowly. “This is a pity-date thing. I’m going to pity-date-you, pity-kiss-you, and pity-fuck-you-into-next-week. I’m going to pity-make-you-french-toast-in-the-morning. I’m going to pity-arrange-a-weeklong-holiday and pity-get-on-an-actual-plane so we can go to one of the ridiculous beaches you like. I’m going to pity-introduce-you-to-my-cats, and pity-tell-you-to-do-the-fucking-dishes, and potentially pity-arrange-cohabitation with you if it ever seems like a sensible idea. _I’m going to pity_ —” 

Bond lunged across the empty space between their chairs and hugged him. “Sorry, dear,” he mumbled into Q’s soft, sweet-smelling hair. He couldn’t stop grinning. 

Q hugged him back, locking his arms around Bond’s shoulders, and released his tension in a slow, shuddering breath that skittered across Bond’s neck. “I suppose I can’t point fingers about you being thick when it took a Boba Fett costume for us to get here,” he said. 

“A really good Boba Fett costume,” Bond said. 

“An _excellent_ Boba Fett costume,” Q corrected him, and smiled into Bond’s neck. 

Bond appreciated due praise, so he curled his fingers into Q’s hair and tugged. Just a little bit at first, and then a little harder when Q gasped, and a little harder still when Q whined low in his throat and his hands clenched into Bond’s shoulders, and then—

“Ooh, no, too hard,” Q said, wincing. “Maybe when I’m more turned on.” 

Bond let go of Q’s hair and pulled back just enough to look at his face. 

“For that matter,” Q said, “this is getting a little uncomfortable.” 

They were still hugging, their torsos bent at a ridiculous angle to accommodate the gap between their seats. 

Bond caught Q’s eye. 

They broke apart, laughing. 

Bond stood up, and Q stood with him, and stepped into Bond’s space. Bond could feel the near warmth of him, the firm grip of one of Q’s hands as it slipped into his robe and curved around his hip, and he could tell Q was going to say something because he heard Q take a breath of the same air that Bond was breathing before he spoke. 

Q said, “It’s not a pity-date. It’s a ‘You won’t hear this often, but I admit that I was wrong’ date. Mark it on the calendar and we’ll celebrate next year.” His hand on Bond’s hip stroked softly. 

“Will we celebrate with Nando’s and orgasms?” Bond asked. 

Q tapped his finger on his cheek, pretending to consider it. “I suppose that would be acceptable,” he said. 

“...Starting today?” Bond asked, leaning forward so he was just a touch away from Q’s lips. 

Q arched backwards, a small tease that left him just enough room to talk. “Starting as soon as you like,” he said, smiling. “I’d understand if you wanted to wait. We haven’t even been out in public together, technically, let alone had the standard three—”

Bond cupped his hand around Q’s jaw and watched the mischievous expression on his face fade into breath-caught longing. “What about a shower?” Bond suggested, his entire body singing with the unguarded desire in Q’s expression. “We can go from there.” 

Q said, “A shower sounds lovely, but I think we should go from _here_ ,” and kissed him. 

***

The next morning, Q really did make him french toast, having stored the ingredients in Bond’s refrigerator before opening the Nando’s take-away. After that, he told Bond to do the fucking dishes, since he’d done the cooking. They also went over to Q’s flat so Q could get some new clothes, despite Bond’s assurances that Q looked fantastic wearing nothing but Bond’s robe, and one of Q’s cats purred so loudly while it lay on Bond’s lap that Bond couldn’t even bring himself to be irritated about the kneading claws and cat hair. 

“I’ll ask M about leave tomorrow,” Q said. “It might take a little while. You know work.” 

Bond did know, but he could wait for the tropics when he had Q waiting with him. Besides, given how well Q’s first not-pity plans had gone, there was a good chance that the rest would go just as swimmingly. 

With Q at his side, Bond thought that the Force would be with them. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing anything so long! Constructive criticism is more than welcome. Thank you for reading! <3


End file.
